Tag Archives: Travelling

Hey. It’s been awhile. Yes, yes I know… We said we’ll keep in touch. But having in mind our past cases – we already could foresee what’s going to happen for us. In fact, it wasn’t even that hard, predicting the cards, I mean. I guess my dream of becoming a freelance-fortuneteller has somewhat worked out, right? (millionaire freelance-fortuneteller is the next title I’m working on)

I want to see how long did your hair grow? I cut mine entirely. Can you imagine? Just chopped it off… Like That!

Do you know I have two alien tattoos now? The first one… Well, I was kind of a-little-perhaps-a-lot drunk for the first one, but can you imagine that the second was planned? Yup, Intentional, with the capital I, where the I in it was maybe a little tipsy the night when the decision was made. I’m still full of surprises… And, of course, alcohol. Nothing’s changed in that department. Good old whiskey, gin & wine recruitment agency is busy as ever.

What’s next… Oh, a smiley piercing. Yup, that too. It’s such a teenage rebellion cliche, but I guess my age nullifies the whole banality thing. I’m still a cool cucumber. (as cool as a person that uses ‘cool cucumber’ in a sentence gets),

Physical changes aside, did I tell you about my shifting locale? I lived in Japan for awhile and officially became a Buddhist there (they gave me a diploma).

My Sweet baby ramen, I miss you.

Stayed with monks and climbed many many mountains… It was breath-taking and sometimes lonely (climbing in silence with no one around can be intimidating) but most of it was adventurous. I would love to tell you more about it, but it deserves a whole another story. I’ll keep it for later. For that wine & cheese night that we usually do. I mean did… But maybe will do once again too?

And what did I tell you? The recruitment agency always means business. CHINK

How much time has passed already?

I forgot to count. 1 time, 2 times, 3 times… Well, logically and grammatically this sentence does not even make sense. One does not simply count time in units. But whatever the case – it still feels like it’s at least 100s times passed the last time I saw you.

I remember saying goodbye. In fact, we didn’t do much. It was more like an exchange of a couple blinks, smiles, fluctuating voice tones and hand waves. This lame order finalised our many years together. We should be more dramatic, that way I could at least squeeze up a good story to tell. With what we have I can only scrape an ‘end’ and a ‘story’. NUTTIN MUCH, YA KNOW.

Seas, mountains, hair, tattoos and loads of other stuff are becoming part of an evidence that I will be held against you. Evidence of time passing. Because I told you, it’s uncountable. Time is fluid. Unstoppable. Running. Melting and diffusing.

Like this:

There’s just something about Bournemouth that excites me every time when I come around. Similarly as is visiting an old friend that greets you with a bottle of wine instead of tea in the early afternoon (the fun part is clearly that the “early afternoon” can actually be called the late morning). And these type of friends, I would suggest, are the keepers. But hey, that’s my cup of tea, not necessarily should be yours.

So meet Bournemouth. It is about 2 and half an hour ride by a bus full of old people (no one likes them, supposedly), broken AC, which is pretty much the same as hell, except with reverse temperature + funny throat, and smell of the the summer’s favorite – sweat. Definitely not the definitions one would like to delegate for the start of, but gradually it got better when at the end fresh ocean’s breeze sneaked into the wheels of torture and missus I shed a tear of joyfulness.

So let’s start with the first impressions that as a rule so many times really go the wrong way. And obviously as good kid I followed it: at first, I kind of got the feeling ‘ok this one is a bit of a weirdo’ as various gentleman’s wiggle clubs together with ladies’ freakingly twin-ish sense of style (leather jackets n leggings, bitch) or the fact that no one really knows what’s going on in this small city, have offered. But it’s cool, I guess am not the most normal person too, so I just went with it and actually ended up falling in love. Sadly, for the melodrama fans, it is a figurative type of love or as the T-shirt on the most touristic market stool would quote “I ❤ BM” (I just made up the acronym). Anyhow, the sea at night, the stares of the people, the pier with flirty fisherman, the laid-back attitudes, skating culture, 50% of food on Mondays, the mountainy terrains, guys at the cool clothe shop who raise pigeons as a hobby, the open bus that takes you to the creepy island and much more got me to drop the nasty attitude for good.

The moment it all turned 360 degrees was perhaps at Swanage (a.k.a creepy island). We were sitting in front of the ocean, watching the only few things that the scenery has offered : boats, cliffs, waves, while surrealistic sounds coming from the game machines of the ancient “Entertainment World” filled in the air . It had a calm (as if all inhabitants of the town were in rehabilitation period of some sort) but at the same time phantsmagoric feel to it, which lit the sparks. Not to forget, the cliff and the long walk in the forest with the finale of sitting at the prohibited edge and watching the ocean… Perhaps, it all doesn’t make sense, but the place was strange and maybe even clumsy analogously to a flawed person whose personality is helplessly charming. So yeah, unavoidably, I got bewitched.

Endless walks in the night, laying next to the ocean at dawn and wonderfully cheap red wine. We are thieves of the night. Sneaking, climbing and rioting on the streets gently. The mankurts of normalities kicked us in our guts and away from their absurd kingdoms . But guess what… we like it that way. If stealing small fragments of the joyfulness is a crime, then please, punish us… All the way to the Penal Colony of our phantasmagorias.

Like this:

Slow anticipation was way much worse than the sizzling sound of shabby train breaks that later on has caused me repetitive brain spasms. Chill folks, this is just the beginning of the word vom you’re about to get, so buckle up. I guess the aftereffect of loud train breaks was tediously painful companionship of a bogus locomotive in my noddle. I swear it felt as if the thing was fluctuating within my skull in a speed about x1.35 times potentially faster than the real deal. (For the slower ones, I am comparing the speed of train vs train of thoughts). I guess the definition of a ‘fun ride’ differs from person to person.

One thing that I never understood is the romanticization of travelling. I mean, all that freedom crap (if you consider freedom to be romantic at all) is just another symbolic add-on, that peculiar European or Western folks have their hands on, before fucking of to India for a shrine visiting marathon. This case is also known to contain soul searching elements. I mean, for real, yo? I find it quite weird and contradicting when a person purchases plane tickets and regards it as investment into their inner development. SOUL DOES NOT HAVE MATERIAL FORM, no need to go all Budha about it! It would be better if you would just admit that you can afford a fucking ticket and that you are a conformist like all the rest of us. If there was a chance of saving human kind this would contribute like 1% to it. Considering how big is the arse that we are in, I would say that is a fairly high percentage. There’s also this ‘travelling without money and relying on people’s good will’ method of travelling, which seems more interconnected with soul stuff. But really, isn’t it just a good excuse to avoid paying for your shit?

I am being sceptical, but all this old train ever gave me is a sweaty arse. Nothing more, nothing less. (theoretically)

Imagine the typical ‘looking afar’ the window picture

‘Did I leave something important behind?’ dilemma began to bug her. A tiny worry was planted and already spreading, building up in the backs of her stomach, in the stomachs of her back and tickling the throat in a wicked kind of manner. A virus? Slowly drowning into the liquid, or becoming one. Amoeba of thoughts has introduced. Now that’s some poetic justice I’ve done here, that is most likely of no one’s interest. Yet, I decided to include something a bit good-natured. I mean… I am a’ blogger’ and that’s a serious title over here. A fucking crown, for all I know.

Both trains stop

The black & white type of crowd was getting off the train in a pace suitable for a conformist institution’s personnel. Brushing into one another and perhaps participating in a competition of who’s the fastest around. But for me, it reminded more of a rats’ race, than anything else. Suddenly, I was really keen on buying some cheese on my way home.

Choo, choo, motherfuckers – thoughts yet departed

The busy streets reminded me of Beethoven’s sonata. Elegance emerging from chaos kind of thing. Sophistication hidden between urbanistic phantasmagorias and the mess has settled down amongst the minds of the city dwellers. This is just like one of those melodies you know by heart, but not necessarily like it, nor hate it either. You, I, US just happened to be familiar with both of the texts. I smile. Sometimes it feels good to don’t be opinionated.

Like this:

For a minute i started to doze off into my personal universe . I was imagining taking night walks with my ‘possible-future-darling’. Both of us sitting on the alienated bench with a cup of warm coffee, having a small talk while gazing at the setting down sun … As soon as these thoughts were getting into the swing of development, I have to admit, I was feeling a bit disgusted with myself. This romantic-like consciousness was always shoved somewhere in the deepest tunnels of my noddle, for not event myself to reach. Well, apparently, light braked through. I think Scandinavia’s heart is at fault, it has romanticism particulars is in the air, I bet.